You ought to know better than to
believe the world stops with this
moment, with
sugar water bathing away ambiguity.
These words aren't the same
sacred incantations you hear - they're bubble-
pudding-
fabric-softener-daydream murmurs meant to
blow away. I've dropped lighter hearts.
Summer is
no promise. We'll be
here forever.
You're out here
in the field catching lightning bugs and I'm sitting on the porch,
hiding in a bank of shadow. You should
know better than to
turn away from these things. Because here are my
footprints and the
last breath of my cigarette and the
silence I can give like a sonic boom, if you want it. I planned to give it all.
You can have the receipt.
But I didn't think about
maybe more or something beyond simple. Never, ever
thought there was the
thought of (that
scary scary c word).
Maybe you . . . maybe you, too.
You ought to know
better than to flatly assume things are the things you see or that
words are more than pretty lies or that girls in
summer's close palm are doing anything but exploring and plotting,
ready to
fall and go back to a cooler reality and
forget the brilliance and the kisses.
You should know that I'm not making
final judgements.
That
I'm not making promises.